Counting Stars
by colorful swirls
Summary: It doesn't take much, for a happy ending to fall. It also doesn't take a lot, to bring it back up. / RonHermione, and dying. For Calynn.


**disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter.

**dedicated to:** Calynn (TheDeltoranOlympian), who is like a big sister to me, and basically just super amazing. I love you! Happy (late) birthday! :D

**written for:** If You Dare, Weasley Bootcamp, Songfic Bootcamp, NextGen Era Bootcamp, House Cup Competition - Round 2, Angst Challenge of Epic Proportions, Not a Fairytale Challenge, Hugs & Happiness Challenge - Calynn, Tearjerker Challenge, Longest One-Shot Competition, All Sorts of Love Competition.

:::

* * *

lately i've been, i've been losing sleep

dreaming about the things that we could be

- **counting stars**,_ one republic_

* * *

:::

Settling down, it turns outs, is easier than you'd think.

Molly and Arthur retreat into an easy, joyful, loving existence. Bill and Fleur go back to Shell Cottage, the salt in the air refreshing. Harry and Ginny are together, for better or for worse, and they're proven that whatever they have - it's strong. Even Ron and Hermione are happy as a couple.

Lives have improved. It was a high cost, but it was worth it.

The pain will never leave. Instead, they have learned to live with it.

:::

"I'm sorry, Ron," she says quickly, hustling to the door. Hermione straightens her coat, and then, seeing his distraught eyes, kisses his chin. "I'll be back the day after Christmas."

"But not the day _of_ Christmas," he reminds her dismally.

"No." She walks out of their small but cozy flat. "I'm sorry." She hugs him hurriedly before starting down the hallway, out the door, down the stairs, and onto the street. Then she disappears, a wisp in the wintry air.

Hermione's parents hadn't been happy, three years ago, when they'd learned what their only daughter had done. It was admirable, Dr. Granger had said. But it was not rational, he'd continued. If she'd only talked to them - if she hadn't taken matters into her own, _seventeen_-year-old hands, things might've been better, he'd stated.

This made Ron's blood boil. She was only trying to help. She was doing her job; she was being a hero. Her parents hadn't seen it that way, though. They felt vandalized, according to Hermione's mother. Things had smoothed over eventually, but Hermione was still expected to spend time with them, to reconnect with her Muggle roots. This year, that means spending Christmas with them.

Sighing, Ron stumbles back into the flat.

:::

"Cheer up, mate." Harry's voice, usually welcomed, only adds to his annoyance. All around them, mistletoe is hung, ornaments are strewn, happiness is flowing freely. Except where Ron sits, only keeping up pretenses for his mother.

Pretenses don't fool Harry, though. They never have.

"Bugger off," he answers irritably. "Your girlfriend is right over there." He gestures towards Ginny, laughing easily with Charlie, red hair falling into her face in curtains.

"Yes," Harry says, the smile from glancing at Ginny still resident on his face. "But my best friend is not."

"I'm here."

"You're my brother, not my best friend." Harry turns around, making sure no one is listening and then whispers, "The ring, remember?"

"Yeah, and I'm happy for you, really, I am." Ron smiles for a fraction of a second. "But that doesn't change the fact that Hermione's gone."

"She's coming back, Ron!" Harry barks a laugh, shaking his head. He then pulls the other man up. "Right now, you need to enjoy Christmas. It could very well be your last Christmas without Hermione." He winks, patting his pocket, and then pushes Ron into the kitchen.

Taking in the smell of gingerbread and the sound of George singing off-key, Ron thinks that it was worth it, being a target, to be Harry Potter's best friend - no, _brother_.

:::

Christmas is surprisingly enjoyable after that, and it is with a smile that Ron goes home the morning after. Mum had made breakfast, a wonderful breakfast, making it easy for him to forget the one - the _two_ - people missing.

Harry's proposal had gone smoothly, too. Christmas Day had been full of short kisses and stray touches for him and Ginny, but the night had been full of much more. He'd taken her out for a walk, and they'd sat on a tree stump, watching the stars reflect onto the frozen lake out in the snowy woods.

From what his sister had said, Harry had begun a speal about how wonderful she was, and how much he loved her, and she'd eventually quieted him by kissing him. This then escalated into _the question_, and shortly after, Ginny's shriek of "Yes!" was heard by all in the Burrow.

They were both beaming by the time they returned to the house. Ron amused himself by remembering how Harry's face had turned deep red when George asked, "What took you two so long?"

Smirking, he unlocks the door to the flat, steps inside, and is greeted by the sight of Hermione - _crying_?

:::

She looks up as his footsteps enter the room, sniffling and then shoving a wad of tissues behind her, as if that will convince him she hasn't been crying. "Merry Christmas, darling." Her voice is weak and raspy, but stubborn, and he knows then that this will be difficult.

"Merry Christmas," Ron echoes. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." At his raised eyebrows, she adds, "That you need to worry about." Hermione picks up her wand and points it at the kitchen. The stove turns on immediately, and she stands up shakily.

"I'll be cooking dinner."

"Hermione - "

"You want food tonight, correct, Ronald?" Her voice is sharp. She hasn't called him Ronald for years.

"Yes," he says heavily. "But I also want to know what's wrong with my girlfriend of three years, who I love very much!"

"_Whom_."

"Hermione, honestly!" He's getting angry now. If her parents had done anything to make her break like this..

In front of him, she sighs. She turns around slowly, and he sees just how delicate she really is at the moment; it's strange. Normally, she's strong, brilliant, and determined.

"I'm sick, Ron," Hermione finally admits, after a long silence.

"Sick?" Laughter bubbles inside him. "You're _sick_? I'll take you to St. Mungo's, Hermione, it's fine." Chortling, he makes his way to the door. "C'mon."

Her eyes have narrowed, and her quick tongue has definitely returned. "Not that sort of sick."

"Well, then what sort?"

"I have a disease." She's whispering now.

"What sort of disease?"

"I have.. I - I have cancer."

"Cancer? That's a Muggle disease." His features spell _confused_.

She smiles, then; an old smile, one he recognizes. That _Oh, Ron_ smile, when she doesn't to burst his bubble but does anyway; that smile that means she knows something he doesn't, that means she's about to do the very thing that makes her smile the most: prove him wrong.

"I'm a Muggleborn, Ron," Hermione says sadly, a hint of that smile still on her face.

:::

"I went to the doctor Christmas Eve, a few hours after I got there, because Mum said I should." Hermione shakes her head. "She doesn't trust wizard Healers.

"The doctor asked me a load of questions, and did a test, and then he sent me to the hospital. I didn't know what was going on.. At the hospital, they confirmed that I had lung cancer - I guess it explains what happened last week, huh?" She smiles softly up at him. She's strewn across his chest, the nightsheets up to her chin.

His face is stony. "Did he give any medicine, or something?"

"No." The smiles slides off her face. "There isn't a cure, Ron."

He grunts. "There'll be a bloody cure one by the time I finish."

Hermione laughs. "I hope so."

They fall asleep like that, him holding her, not for fear of her leaving; but for fear of him staying behind.

:::

After the engagement, it feels almost criminal to suck Harry out of his bubble of happiness. It's necessary, though. It must be done.

"Did you hear?" Harry asks, his voice excited and not nearly as depressed as it should be on a day like today. "Ginny and your Mum have already started planning!" He grins as they continue up the steps, then frowns. "Will this take long, Ron? I wanted to help pick out flowers - "

"It'll be quick, don't worry," Ron assures him. Finally, they reach the top. Harry immediately enters Ron's room; he follows, closing the door behind them, and then gesturing for Hermione - who had been sitting on one of the beds, waiting - to stand up.

"Listen, Harry," Hermione begins. "We have something to tell you."

"It's important - you should listen. This could be life or death, it could."

Harry is staring at Ron now, his eyes sharp and without a hint of Ginny-induced euphoria. "What is it?"

Ron's opening his mouth to respond, but stops as his girlfriend lets out a sob. "Life or death," she repeats, covering her face with her hands.

Both Harry and Ron are at her side immediately; Harry puts his arm around her, Ron wipes away her tears gently.

"I have cancer," she whispers, burying her face in Harry's shirt. His eyes grow wide immediately. Ron stands by, watching emotions go through his friend's green eyes like a film: confusion, sadness, anger. Harry then wraps his other arm around Hermione, pressing his own face into her hair.

"You'll be okay," he tells her quietly.

She doesn't respond, just lets more tears fall, and Ron watches this, wondering suddenly if it was such a good idea to tell the family.

:::

Later that night, after things have quieted slightly, and walls separate the couples, some are building up and some are breaking down.

"I've already lost a son," Molly sobs, clutching at her husband's shirt. "I can't lose a daughter!" Arthur is silent. He comforts her slowly, his face a mask of shock, hurt, uncertainty, and certainty - he is sure that pain is to come. Bill and Fleur lie, cradling the sleeping Victoire between them. Fleur, after such a long day of tears, is fast asleep, just like her daughter. Bill, though, is wide awake. He sees Hermione is his mind, sitting in front of his family, saying things about diseases and cures and struggles. He can remember her face; it had been scared, sad, shy, but most of all, her face had been defiant.

George and Angelina lie, splayed across the white sheets of the massive bed. After the war, the twins' beds had been magicked together into one big bed - it not only created for more space, it represented George's resolve to never forget Fred.

They are quiet for a long while, until Angelina breaks the silence. "We should get married."

"What?"

"Think about it, George." She turns so that she can look him the face, blue eyes, freckles, missing ear and all. "Hermione's going to die - "

"We don't know that - "

"George." Angelina's voice is soft as she twines her fingers with his. "It's no use, I wish it wasn't true, but she's going to die." Her eyes fill with tears suddenly.

"And when me and you die, which could be anytime," she continues, the droplets pouring down her face now, "I want to be able to call you my husband."

George takes a deep, long breath, and then he kisses her, full of passion and full of tears. When she pulls away, he nods, and that is answer enough.

_She's had a great life_, Percy attempts to console himself._ She's going to better place._

Finally, after more and more thoughts like these, he realizes that there is only one thing that can truly console him: he has a date with Audrey the next day.

His arms around her, his lips against her hair, Ginny can almost convince herself that nothing is wrong. But then she feels his tears against her cheek, and yes, something is always, always wrong.

"She'll make it to be Maid of Honor." And Harry is always, always trying to right the wrongs that can never be set right.

"How do you know?" she asks.

He doesn't answer, just kisses her neck, and she knows that she's correct; they don't know, and that is perhaps the worst part of the entire ordeal.

Ron is sleeping - that deep sort of slumber, that you think is impossible to wake up from, but isn't.

She hadn't the heart to wake him. Yes, maybe she had wanted to have a long, important discussion about the strength of their love, and how she will fight for him, and how she will always love him.

But watching him like this is so much better.

He looks younger in sleep, not like someone that should have fought a war, not like someone that should have a dead brother. Not like someone that should have a dying girlfriend - but these things cannot be helped, can they?

:::

Healer Lyons is a nice man, Hermione's sure, but the news he delivers is not.

"People with magic in their blood have a sort of shield," he explains. "Being Muggleborn, you obviously were more vulnerable from the start, and I suppose all those adventures caught up to you, dear. The harder you work, the more things you're exposed to, the easier it'll come. Even then, though, it was a one in a million chance you'd catch the disease." He chuckles. "You're just a lucky one, aren't you?"

"Yes," Ron grunts. "She is very lucky. Now, how do we treat this?"

"It depends. Witches and wizards don't have the exact same response Muggles do; cancer targets a specific part of a Muggle's body, but it eats away at us, slowing everything down simultaneously, until everything stops at the same time."

"Yes," Ron repeats, his voice slow, as to not explode. "But how do we treat it?"

"Plenty of good food, of course. Try not to overexert yourself, but exercise a bit, Hermione. I'd also recommend twelve hours of sleep each night, and as always, try not to depress yourself too much."

"Depress myself?"

"Depression is not good for cancer; if you eat your own happiness, you're only doing it's job for you." Ron stands suddenly.

"Alright," he says. "This was nice. Thank you, Healer Lyons, for all the advice. We'll take it into consideration." He then grabs Hermione's hand, shoves open the door, and pulls her out.

Ten minutes later, they're in the kitchen of the Burrow, eating sandwiches. "I'm really sorry," he admits. "I just - I couldn't handle - seeing you - "

"Die?" She's not afraid of the word; only it's meaning.

Ron flinches. "Fear of a name only increases fear of a thing itself," she reminds him, surprisingly jovial.

"You're right," he sighs.

:::

"We want a small wedding," George states. "Only family and friends, by the lake, nothing special. And as soon as possible, please, Mum."

Molly stares at her son doubtfully. "Are you sure that's all you want, Angelina, dear?"

"Absolutely." Her son's fiancee's voice is firm, and so Molly sighs, and takes out a quill.

"Let's get to it, then," she says. George smiles and walks out, while Angelina immediately starts talking.

:::

"Come _on_, Ron, stop moping around." Hermione flops down on the couch beside her boyfriend.

"What else is there to do?" he asks morosely. She grins; somehow she's managed to become excited, of all things to become.

"Well," she responds slowly. "I have three tickets to a Muggle amusement park, and I was thinking it would fun, for me and you and Harry - "

"Wait a moment." Ron sits up suddenly. "Are you asking me to go to a carnival full of Muggles with you?"

"And Harry," she corrects, her eyes pleading.

Slowly, he grins. "Of course I'll go, Hermione. Do they have food?"

"The best." She laughs, taking his hand and pulling him up. She grabs a handful of Floo powder, and in another fifteen minutes, her, Ron, and Harry are walking into her second-favorite place as a young girl.

:::

She _knew_ she shouldn't have voiced that last thought.

"And what was your first-favorite place, Hermione?" Ron's teasing her now, the nind flowing through his mop of orange hair, cotton candy fluttering in the breeze. She wants to be angry, she truly does, but it's hard when he looks that adorable.

"I should think it's quite obvious," Hermione replies, raising her eyebrows. She hopes he can't tell that she's _trying_ to appear superior. But Harry, with his grin and sparkling eyes - she never could fool Harry.

Laughing, her best friends says, "It's the library, Ron." Harry chuckles still, and then he tosses his corn dog into a nearby trash bin, dashing forwards and grabbing her into a hug.

All of a sudden, the air has shifted, from playful to serious. Hermione focuses on Harry's deep breathing and Ron's arms holding her as he joins them, and in that moment, she wonders if this is what she'll miss the most; her boys.

:::

Circumstances only rise from there. Hermione is set on fighting this - this _thing_ killing her. She hasn't survived through war and love and Voldemort to say goodbye _now_.

She eats what Dr. Lyons tells her to, she goes out with Ron and Harry and Ginny and Luna and everyone. She buys books, if only to distract herself from the inevitable.

Hermione Granger is not stupid. She knows - she _knows_. Everything that flies most land, and that includes her, no matter what people will try to believe.

:::

"Well," the doctor says. "You're doing much better, much better, Miss Granger." He smiles at her, and Hermione returns it, for Ron, if anything. His eyes are joyful; they hide well the dismay, and the seeming timelessness that is lurking in the depths of his brown eyes.

Dr. Lyons is not fooled, and neither should Ron be - but of all her strengths, she is too weak to only tell her boyfriend the truth: that nothing can save her.

_Love isn't enough this time_, Hermione thinks savagely towards her old Professor.

:::

It is the most beautiful thing in the entire world, this meadow. It's completely natural; why, Mrs. Weasley couldn't have spent more than ten Galleons.

Evergreen trees encircle the party; it's rare, to see a clearing of grass so very green, of a lake so murky, but yet clear. The chairs are few. They, painted bright white, line the area. A small arch resides at the front, adorned by paper flowers that Victoire and Teddy had spent ages making, watched closely by Fleur.

With the sky such a light, dazzling, blue, it's obviously a colorful occasion. Hermione, Ginny, Katie, and Alicia all wear different colored dresses; yellow, blue, red, pink. Angelina's wedding dress is white, yes, but it's an off-white, more ivory, that catches the shades all around her, and reflects them, using the sun's warm light.

George wears a vivid magenta tuxedo, standing proudly at the front. Neville and Harry and Ron and Oliver and Seamus, and all the boys are up beside him, grinning at Angelina. Oliver manages to kiss her cheek before - somehow - before George takes her hands and the ceremony begins.

It's strange, actually. Aren't weddings traditionally fancier, and more.. civilized?

If so, Hermione reasons, the bride and groom today don't care in the least, seeing as Harry is now cutting the cake and Angelina is shoving the entire piece in George's face, laughing all the while.

Allowing herself a grin, she feels Ron twirling her off to the dance floor, and she lets it all go, dancing and laughing and throwing her head back in the sheer feeling of infinity this day has had; the euphoric dream that maybe she won't die.

It all feels like color on a canvas, like someone is splattering all sorts of strange hues on a paper and letting them all blend together, yellow and blue and violet and green. It's a wonderful feeling, and Hermione knows that if she ever had a wedding, she would want one like this.

At the end of the ceremony, after officially being named Angelina's husband, George declared, "Mischief Managed."

Most hadn't known what it meant, but the ones that did had all smiled; Hermione was sure there was a diamond-shaped tear in Angelina's eye.

:::

"It shouldn't be that quick," Ron demands. "Just last week, you said she was improving!" Hermione winces at the harsh tone of his voice, his face as red as the lone rose on the doctor's desk.

"Things happen, things change." The man sighs, standing up and rubbing his eyes. "Mr. Weasley, you're going to have to get used to fate - it doesn't wait for anyone."

"I thought it was time?" Hermione inquires, speaking for the first time.

"No," the doctor smiles slightly at her, "time is easy enough to get around."

"You're loony," Ron suddenly says, quite frankly. "You're loony and we're leaving and you're _wrong_!" He pulls Hermione's hand, almost yanking her out of the small room, and her last of Healer Lyons is the sad smile on his face, nearly sympathetic but more understanding, and the way his fingers linger on the rose's delicate petals.

:::

"He's right." The words are the first she tells him when they're out of the hospital, and they are not the ones he wanted to hear. "I'm pregnant," she sticks on the end, blunty and quickly, like she can't hold those three tiny syllables in any longer.

He stares at her for a moment, asking a question with his eyes. Hermione takes a shuddering breath, and then continues.

"It happened right after I found out I had cancer, just a few nights before first seeing Healer Lyons. Me and him, we knew - I had to tell him, otherwise he'd have given me the wrong medicine. You see, the baby takes up half of my body's nutrients, which are already needed, _especially_ needed with my condition, and it.. it also doesn't do well with surgery or anything, so I'm sort of stuck. Until a cure, of course."

"You're giving up - you're going to die - for a baby?"

"For _our_ baby, Ron," Hermione explains, sounding hurt.

_It doesn't matter_, Ron thinks, but yes, it does. "I don't want you to die." His voice is soft.

"I don't want to die either," she admits. "But it's worth it, if - if we're parents."

He turns to her once more, looking at her with an unimpretreneble expression on his face. He doesn't say anything, but he takes her hand, and then they disappear.

:::

"Ron," she whispers in the dark.

"Yes?" It's one of their last nights. One of their last nights of this - of his wrapped around her, of her legs twined with his, of their eyes close and their breath closer.

"Don't ever change, please," she begs. He doesn't know where this is coming from, but he knows the answer.

"I won't," he promises, kissing her nose, and in an instant, she is back asleep.

:::

It's been two weeks. Fourteen days, 336 hours, 20,160 minutes, 1,209,600 seconds - and each second of every day of each week, he'd been fixated on her.

From what the Healers had said, they would prefer to go ahead and take the baby out. At three months, there was no chance it would grow, or survive, but they'd all agreed that her safety was more important.

"I'm going to die, anyway," she'd yelled. "Those bastards - it doesn't matter how many of my children they kill, I'm still going to die!"

She'd shut herself up in her room after that, refusing to look at him or talk him or breath the same air as him for another day.

"I'm sorry," she'd said then. "Not about what I said, but who I said it to." She'd given him a bittersweet smile that didn't reach anywhere near her eyes. "You didn't decide this."

Actually, he had, but she didn't know that, and she didn't need to know.

:::

The room is bright, should it be this bright?

He is saying things to her, the man with the large nose. Important things, she's sure. But so far, "..baby...two to three hours..needle..sleep...die..baby..unable..precauti ons.." is all she's been able to pick out.

He's also said something, something about a sort of special baby? Babies that were born early, wizarding babies, that is, and able to reach the level of a five-year-old by the time they were two.

Hermione is not entirely sure how this is relevant, at all, but the man had said a long string of words, and those were the only she'd listened to, because they didn't contain "baby" and "die" in the same phrase.

She's thinking about Ron - and what he means - and what he does - and what he is - when there's a flash of skin, a jab of a needle, and she knows no more.

The lights are too bright, should they be this bright?

:::

Ron stands outside the door, pacing.

It had all happened so suddenly; she'd been sitting down, flipping through one of his Mum's cookbooks, when there was a scream and red was all around, and he hadn't known what to do but Apparate here immediately.

The Healers had said he'd made the right choice, but it was their job to tell him that. Shouldn't he have told his family first, at least?

But he hadn't, and know she's in that room, having something done to her body that she'd never agreed to in the first place.

Why is it, that regrets most always come too late?

:::

She wakes up around midnight, the navy sky visible through the window to her left. To her right, there is a dozing Ron in a chair, and somewhere behind her there is chaos.

Yelling and directing and movement - she doesn't know what's going on, but she can hear them all, each and every sound they make.

One of them strides over to check on her, exclaiming, "She's awake!" And then there are faces everywhere and even more chaos, and she only wants to sink back and fall away, but she can't.

She can't, because there is a ball of wriggling blankets in a nearby Healer's arms, and she's not sure, but she thinks she spots a tiny, fuzzy red hair on the baby's head.

:::

Ron awakes to "Mr. Weasley, your daughter survived!"

They have to repeat themselves, obviously, as he was immensely groggy, but when the point comes across, he can barely hold himself together.

His daughter is special, they'd said. It's a combination of the genetics, the blood, the mind. The Healers had also placed a fair few spells on her, as well, but the baby, in the end, had been the truly remarkable one.

Ron wasn't sure - still isn't sure - if this means he has a Hermione or a genius on his hands. Either way, though, he has a daughter.

And that is enough.

:::

When she opens her eyes again, Ron is sitting beside her bed, the same child in his arms. "It's a girl," he beams.

"It's ours?" Hermione gasps.

"She's ours," he corrects.

They smile at each other for a moment, her eyes twinkling, his crinkling at the corners. "Lemme hold her," she eventually says, after what seems like an eternity but is really five seconds.

Her daughter slides into her arms easily, the red fuzz still prominent on her head. Her face is pink and squishy and her eyes are close, but Hermione thinks this girl is beautiful. Ron agrees, if his grin is anything to go by.

"But how did she survive?" she wonders aloud sometime later.

"I dunno, actually." Ron shrugs. "It's a sort of gifted wizard, thing.. She has your brain, my good looks, and our combined power all in her tiny, tiny body... I suppose she's a survivor."

He smiles again, and she does, too.

"Name?" he asks.

"Um," Hermione stutters. "Did you have any ideas?"

He places his hand over hers - the one that isn't cradling the baby. "It's your decision, Hermione." He leans back in his chair, content to watch her deliberate.

They've discussed names before, briefly. And Hermione has always had one in mind - Isabella.

But looking at her own daughter, she is only reminded of Healer Lyons, and the way his fingers had lingered over the petals of his rose. Actually, that peach fuzz will probably become the color of a rose, one day.

"Rose," Hermione declares, and then she falls back against the pillows, utterly and irrevocably exhausted.

:::

When she next awakes, there is no Ron or Rose in sight, but she does see a strange, golden light..

:::

Life after death is not easy.

He's got a baby girl, born early, to tend with. He's got a huge family, still home, probably either absentmindly wondering where he is, or not bothering. He's got a lot to do.

And the thing is, it wouldn't have been so overwhelming, if he'd had her with him.

:::

He's felt pain before, death has taken its toll on Ron before - from Dumbledore to Sirius to Fred.

It's the emptiness that's new, that he's not accustomed to. It takes him quite awhile, actually, to get all the used to it. It takes him quite awhile to realize that she's not coming back to fill the empty hole, the empty, gaping hole.

But Rose is here. Rose is his life, nowadays.

:::

Six years later, browsing around Diagon Alley, licking ice cream off their fingers, Rose finds something in a shop window.

She runs up to the book at once, pointing to it, her breath fogging the glass slightly. "Daddy, Daddy, it's that book I told you I wanted!"

He walks up behind her, sliding an arm around her shoulders and gazing at the book, his eyes unreadable. "Hogwarts: A History?" he questions.

"It's a guide to Hogwarts, Daddy, newly updated, too," she defends.

Ron stands up, sighing. "I know what it is, Rosie, trust me."

"That's great! So can we get it, Daddy, please?" Her voice is so small that he can't help but wonder how big her brain is.

"Fine." Allowing himself a smile, he adds, "As long as you promise you're not your Mum in disguise."

"I'm not, Daddy, don't be silly," Rose giggles, rushing into the shop.

"Stranger things have happened," her father mutters to himself, before following.

:::

Five years later, Rose boards the Hogwarts Express with her cousin Albus. The two of them pick a compartment at the relative back; the rest has been taken already.

They're talking about Houses, when a blonde-haired boy stumbles in, fiddling with a Chocolate Frog box. He stands there for a moment, and then sits out his hand. Albus is too shocked, so Rose takes the hand, and shakes it firmly.

"Rose Weasley," she says brightly. "And you?"

"Scorpius," the boy answers, plopping down across from her. "And who's that?" He gestures in Albus's direction; Albus opens his mouth, recovered, but Rose beats him to it.

"Oh, that's my cousin." She laughs. "Albus Potter."

"Cool," Scorpius replies, not noticing the name Potter with the amount of concentration he's putting into the Chocolate Frog box.

"Here, let me help you," Albus offers, taking the box from him, sticking his tongue out at Rose. After a moment he's pried the box open, and he's handed it back.

"Thanks." Scorpius pops a Chocolate Frog in his mouth, and then examines the card. "I collect these, you know," he tells them.

"Which is it, then?" Albus asks.

"'Hermione Granger,'" Scorpius reads. "I wonder how she was."

"My Mum," Rose admits, snatching the card from him, gazing at the picture of her mother.

"Oh," Scorpius exclaims. "Oh, I'm sorry, Rose, I didn't know - "

"It's fine." She smiles at him. "It's been years, and I don't even remember her." Holding the card, she holds it back out to him, saying, "Besides, I have thousands of her Card's back at home."

Scorpius grins. "That's good," he answers cheerfully.

"It is." Rose grins, too, and soon, the two of them are leaving Albus behind in the whirlwind of conversation; suddenly, they are _RoseandScorpius_, inseparable.

They get married.

:::

Before they marry, though, they have to meet; on that very same day that Rose and Scorpius are becoming _RoseandScorpius_, Ron is standing on the platform, waving.

He hopes she'll meet new people. He hopes she'll have an adventure. He hopes she'll make good grades - the best grades. He hopes she'll charm everyone, and everything, but really, he hopes that she has the time of her life.

:::

* * *

and if you say we'll be alright

i'll follow you into the light

- **the light**, _sara bareilles_

* * *

:::

**a/n:** please don't favorite/follow without reviewing, thanks! and again, happy birthday, Calynn! =D


End file.
